
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4773434.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural, Dawson's_Creek
  Relationship:
      C.J./Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      C.J._(Dawson's_Creek), Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Unrequited_Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Requited_Unrequited_Love,
      Underage_Sex, Substitution
  Stats:
      Published: 2008-06-30 Words: 1927
****** Substitution ******
by poisontaster
Summary
     Sam can't have his brother, but he can have someone who looks like
     him.
Notes
     This was meant to be part of a longer work, but the rest of it never
     got written and this stands just fine on its own.
Sam was fourteen when he lost his virginity.
He didn't tell anyone and as far as Dean's concerned, Sam didn't manage to
close the deal for another two and a half years, prompting a lot of brotherly
ribbing and even more completely annoying attempts to shove Sam at any female
within a hundred yard radius. Sometimes Sam thinks he finally did it—with
Candida Feldspar—just to get Dean off his back.
If Sam has his way, Dean's never going to know about that first, real time.
Because that one's Dean's fault too.
Or… Maybe not. Fault is such a strange concept, impossible to really trace, a
serpent that eats its own tail.
This is how it goes:
Sam dreams.
When the dreams become too much, he goes to—finds—the bar.
There is always a bar.
Most of the towns they go to it doesn't pay to advertise, but after a while, he
develops a kind of radar. It's not always right—he's gone home with a few
bloody noses that he's blamed on fights with other kids—but most of the time
his instinct is dead on. He doesn't know what it is, exactly. A way of holding
yourself, a quiet look in the eyes…who knows.
But it always ends pretty much the same way, with Sam on his knees or pushed
over a car or pressed against a wall until the weight of someone else's cock—in
his hand, his mouth, his ass—drives the demons out, an exorcism of the flesh.
He likes it best when they put him on his knees or belly. It lets him get lost
somewhere inside his head, because let's face it: this is not love, it's
commerce.
He has a type, solid and broad-shouldered. The whiff of a leather jacket, a
gaudy flash of freckles, the winter gleam of a plain silver band…Sam gets so
hard so fast it makes him dizzy. He's not stupid. He knows why. There's no
denial at work here, other than the bone-deep resolution that Dean must never
know.
Never know that his baby brother fucks boys.
Never know that his baby brother fucks boys that look like him, or as close to
it as Sam can approximate.
Never know—Jesus and Virgin Mary, please never ever know—that Sam does it
because he loves his brother. Loves him in ways brothers shouldn't. And loves
him too much to burden him with this.
These are the things Sam thinks about.
This is what he's thinking about when he spreads his legs and feels C.J. fit in
the gap between his knees. Sam let C.J. pick him up at a Gas-n-Sip near the
college. He told C.J. his name is Richie; C.J. didn't tell him what the
initials stand for and Sam didn't ask. C.J.'s hair is too dark, a little too
long, but Sam's learned to compensate. The freckles, sparser than Dean's, are a
plus.
The woman singing on the radio is telling Sam she's not an addict and Sam
chuffs a soft laugh at the irony while C.J.'s hands map the curves of Sam's
ass, the bow line of his spine, the jutting bones of his ribs and hips. There
is wonder in C.J.'s touch and, through the ache in his throat, Sam thinks C.J.
must not fuck boys very often. He suspects not. It'd taken a lot of
Sam's—considerable, at this point—skill to play dumb-but-encouraging long
enough for C.J. to reel him in. Sam suspects C.J. doesn't get laid much at all.
Sam can't help the sharp arch of his back when C.J. fucks his cock into him.
There really wasn't enough prep or lube and the…shock, for lack of a better
word, of penetration always takes some adjustment at the best of times.
It's sick and it's shameful, but Sam always wonders if this is what it would
really be like, imagines what Dean would be like. Whether he'd be rough, hasty
and impatient, the way he is with school work, or research or traffic…or
whether he'd be slow and thorough, touching Sam like his fingertips glide over
their weapons, smooth and reverent, smutted with the fluids and dusts of their
care.
"Sorry…sorry." C.J.'s hands are everywhere, but jerky, spastic, like he doesn't
know what to do with them anymore. Too much of his weight is on Sam and it
burns, in his ass, his knees, his hard-locked elbows.
Carefully, Sam reaches back and smoothes the best he can along the ridge of
C.J.'s hip. "S'okay. Just…God…" Sam shifts, trying to find the good angle
inside him. C.J. feels bigger than he looked, though Sam could really say that
about every guy he's fucked. He tries not to do it too often, the need to burn
it out of him conflicting with the disgust that he needs to do it at all.
Better than the alternative.
Sam and C.J. negotiate flesh and position until Sam can handle the overwhelming
feel of a man inside him, until the pressure turns sweet and the fullness a
tease. Sam buries his face in the pillow, ignoring the residual scent of C.J.
in the linen.
Sam feels bad about the way he's been thinking about C.J.; it's another one of
those things that happens when the inevitable comparisons to Dean crop up. The
truth is, the guy's not a bad lay when he gets past his initial nervousness,
big cock rubbing all the right ways and his clever hands doing the rest,
working Sam's nipples and cock like they've been together a dozen times instead
of just this once. It's good—better than good—and Sam comes gasping, convulsing
around C.J.'s still hard dick.
Sam moans but doesn't protest when C.J. maneuvers him onto his side, still
fucking in slow, deep strokes that dance up and down Sam's spinal column like
electricity. He's never been taken like this; it's more intimate than he likes
to get, with C.J. curved around him, kissing him.
"So good, so pretty," C.J. murmurs and he sounds like it's hurting. "You feel
so good on my dick."
Sam doesn't know how he feels about being called 'pretty', especially the way
C.J. says it, but he's trembling all the same, still strung out on his first
orgasm and being fucked toward another and C.J. keeps touching him, no longer
tentative in the least. Sam's skin crackles, sensitive from head to toe. It's
not usually like this. They're not usually this…nice.
Wait, Sam says, stop, stop…
Or he means to. He really means to.
C.J. cradles Sam's cock, smiling against Sam's shoulder as it lengthens and
fills again. "Yeah. Like that. Let me…oh, fuck, let me…"
Sam thinks there isn't much he wouldn't let C.J. do, right at this moment.
His orgasm, when it comes, hurts; pain among the pleasure. What hurts more,
though, is the way it wrings Dean's name out of him, longing and shame and the
horrible perversion of all his love should be.
Sam's limbs seem tangled in sand as he tries to disengage himself from C.J.,
dull, stupid and slow, burned through with embarrassment. C.J. won't let him
go, though, and Sam doesn't want to hurt him.
"Hey," C.J. says gently—far more gently than Sam deserves. "Hey, it's okay,
okay? Don't freak out on me."
Sam shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I… Jesus." He pulls away enough to roll to the
edge of the bed, put his feet on the floor. He's breathing too hard and his
hair hangs down into his eyes.
"No…hey." C.J. sits next to him, slings an arm around Sam's shoulders. "I've
been there, you know?"
Another new situation; it feels weird to be naked with this guy that just
fucked him, talking. Talking like they're friends. Like this is even going to
go past tonight. Sam doesn't do repeats. By the time he needs this again, needs
someone, they'll be long gone. Still, it makes him uneasy, prickling at his
skin like cheap, coarse wool. He wants to get up and go but guilt and inertia
glue him in place.
"I know," C.J. repeats, like he has any fucking idea. "It's hard when you don't
know. When you're not sure. But…" He pauses and Sam squirms. "Have you ever
thought about telling this Dean guy how you feel? Maybe…maybe it won't be as
bad as you think."
How do you know what I think? Sam wants to demand. Instead, he ducks his
shoulder, letting C.J.'s arm fall away. "It's not like that," he says finally,
unwillingly, just wanting C.J. to stop looking at him like that.
C.J. makes a face at him and Sam has seen that face too many times on Dean and
their Dad not to know what it means: Oh, kid, you're too young.
He's almost seventeen. And C.J. is just another ringer, standing in for someone
else, someone Sam can't have, can never have. The familiar resentment churns in
Sam's stomach, dispelling some of the afterglow.
"How do you know?"
Sam jerks his clothes up from the floor. There's come on his belly and thighs
and cock and there's lube in his stretched hole that makes walking interesting,
but Sam doesn't care. If he had a mom, maybe she would notice, but once Sam was
old enough to bathe himself Dad and Dean have only given cursory notice to
Sam's grooming anyway. "I know."
C.J. offers to give him a ride home, but Sam doesn't want C.J. knowing where he
lives, doesn't want to see him again. It's over and it's as much a success and
a failure as it ever is.
It's a long walk back to the motel. By the time he gets there, Sam's warm with
exertion and cold right through to the bones with everything else. Neither Dad
nor Dean is back. Dad's out on the hunt and Sam doesn't expect him for a couple
days. Dean… Dean's probably out finding his own entertainment, dumb as rocks
and with good tits.
Sam drinks glass after glass of water until that thought—the thought of Dean
fucking—doesn't turn him sick anymore. He coaxes the hottest water he can out
of the aging shower and washes until the bar of soap is only a sliver and then
it's into his pajamas and into bed.
He's almost asleep when Dean finally clatters in, clumsy and singing under his
breath. Sam tenses up but he doesn't open his eyes, wondering how drunk Dean
is, wondering if….
Sometimes. Sometimes, Dean…
The smell hits Sam like a wall when Dean bends over him, bar and sweat and sex.
His stomach rumbles again, rebellious, and it's an effort not to jump when
Dean's hand settles warmly on Sam's forehead, smoothing his hair back.
When he was little, Sam used to imagine their mother would've touched him like
that, soothed away his many bad dreams. Now, Sam can't imagine anyone's hand
but Dean's.
"G'night, Sammy." Dean probably thinks he's being quiet. Sam doesn't care, hope
flickering like candle flame inside his chest. Dean leans down and Sam holds
his breath as his brother's dry, rough mouth brushes his forehead. It burns.
It feels like benediction. It feels like forgiveness.
It feels like love.
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